《Witch Hunt. A Warhammer Fiction》A Loss of Faith

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How many more of them could come? Ten of the twisted hounds lay curled up dead on the rocky ground, another came at Adebar, finding the point of a slowly dulling rapier driving into its throat, spilling hot, black ichor over the noble’s hand, There was no time to recoil in disgust, or cry out, one of the monsters came at him fast, bounding from one of the ancient pews. Instinctively he raised an arm, trying to protect his face as the fangs closed in, then he hit the ground. Sharp pain shot through his hand as the beast gnawed on his fingers. Again the jaws snapped close, milky, half-blind eyes stared down at him, foul breath hit his face, hurt the eyes, then the beast yelped and flew to the left. Holzer pulled him up, the two men stood back to back, hacking, slashing and stabbing, kicking and cursing at the oncoming pack.

A swift shadow, the hiss of air, the clatter of metal on stone. Before Adebar had even realized how close the projectile had come to his head, Holzer was already flexing backward and hurling his axe at the wiry, short, almost hairless Beastman that had dared to throw the spear. The blade, by a miracle, dug into the creature’s scrawny chest, drawing a noise that was too close to the mewl of a babe, and too close to the bleat of a goat, only drawing more revulsion from the fighting men.

More of the scrawny mockeries pushed through the doors: some with shields, some with axes, knives, or spears; a motley, heathen band of monstrosities.

The last hound found its end under Adebar’s boot, hammering the heel into its gullet again and again, until something gave way, and the thing’s rattling breath told him it would be dead, then the devil-horned Beastmen were on them. Holzer drew a dagger and dove to evade the jab of a long spear, Adebar jumped forward, trying to surprise one with a crude shield, feinting a high thrust to its childish head. The beast reacted and raised its shield, the ruse had worked as intended; the swordsman flipped his wrist around, the blade turned with a flourish, the blood-slick steel cutting through the air as the long thrust turned into a downward strike, toward the fiend’s exposed legs. Much to Adebar’s frustration the beast was surprisingly nimble, jumping back with a sneering bleat. Still, Adebar had an ace, and no time to lose, for more of them were coming. The pistol barked, the shielded beast cried as lead tore through the crude wood and sank into its flesh.

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Another scream, Holzer had struck his enemy, then a bestial, deep howl that made the blood on Adebar’s veins freeze. The gate’s stone arch came crumbling in, the gates burst into splinters, and the hole left was filled by a wall of writhing, mewling, revolting flesh, covered in sprouting arms, grasping tentacles, and tortured, pleading faces, both bestial and human, Some were small, others skeletal, or large, with dumbstruck expressions. all pained, mouthing pleas and curses.

The Dark Gods had cursed them with eyes to see, Adebar knew then.

Von Bolstedt and Holzer barely had time to realize, or even comprehend the horror they were looking at, when it bounded through the beastmen and hurled itself towards them; a riot of mouths, eyes and limbs, that grabbed carcasses and living, screaming beastmen, drew them in, or tore them apart, or crushed them, or cut them with bone-blades. The thing was an impossibility, a testament to the malefic powers at work, proof of the godlessness of the world, if any had still been needed.

Mortal men could do nothing against such evil.

A long, slimy tentacle snatched up von Bolstedt, squeezed the air out of his lungs, raised him up, and hurled him against the furthest wall, sending him hurtling into the wooden effigy of Sigmar.

He almost didn't feel it. Time went by like phlegm running down a throat.

The shattered man-godling, the pretence of a god looked down at him, lying there on the floor. Once the gaze would’ve seemed punitive. Now it was robbed of all condemnation. It seemed powerless. An icon to nothing.

A sharp cry of Holzer’s dragged him back to his feet, the rapier was still in his cramping, right hand, his feet moved of their own volition. Something in him didn’t want to die lying down. It was just as well, he thought, maybe death would be quicker if he fought.

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Steel lashed out, a tentacle was severed, and Holzer fell back to the ground. A large, bony growth flashed forwards and cleft downward; von Bolstedt danced to the side, ramming the point of his blade into the malefic flesh, only barely aware of the strange sigils on the beast’s raw skin. He didn’t even know what he was looking at, what he was stabbing into, if this thing could even be mortally wounded. Doubt grabbed his heart. Something grabbed his shoulder; a hand, by all means far too human, sticking out of a boil-like growth on the thing’s side, then another from the right, so many flailing limbs. Death was his, ignoble, terrible and gruesome, painful! This wouldn’t be quick!

He thrashed in the things grip, as it tore into all directions.

A ghostly howl echoed through the woods. The thing seemed to shiver, then came another howl, shrill and terrible, otherworldly. The thing waited, hesitated, shook and trembled. Then Adebar fell to the ground and the thing crashed through the western wall, howling its own, harsh cry.

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